


Lost Your Marbles

by amoosebouche



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Conversations, Cats, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Angst, No Smut, No substance whatsoever, Ridiculous, Short & Sweet, Silly, and their terrible pet policies, codewords, draconian landlords, i wrote this whole thing today, it's so fluffy i'm going to die, passive agressive notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10047386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoosebouche/pseuds/amoosebouche
Summary: Dean's downstairs neighbor is cute, but when he finally talks to the guy, Dean's pretty sure he's completely lost his marbles. The guy just keeps spewing weird nonsense every time they cross paths. So, Dean does the only logical thing to do and tries to avoid his neighbor. Which, of course, is easier said than done when your neighbor is a cute but definitely weird and definitely paranoid dude who speaks in riddles and sneaks around the apartment building with a wriggling picnic basket.Or, in which Cas finds something he's sure is Dean's, and Dean has no freaking idea what Cas is talking about.





	

**Author's Note:**

> brought to you by the weird things I think of while I'm falling asleep, Team Lube (<3), and Chi's Sweet Home.

The first time Dean spoke with his downstairs neighbor was, to say the least, a very strange experience. The man had cornered him in the 2nd floor hall of their building and muttered something under his breath that Dean couldn’t quite catch. When he asked the guy to repeat himself, he blushed and scurried— _ scurried! _ —away like he was doing something inappropriate. Dean had retreated to his apartment, more than a little bemused.

When he got home from the grocery store later that night he found a note stuck under his door. 

“I found your ‘marbles’,” it said, written in a neat and precise hand. It was unsigned, but Dean was absolutely certain it was from the guy downstairs, because now that he saw the message written out, it sounded a lot like what he  _ thought _ the guy had said to him earlier.

It was still completely and totally nonsensical, of course, so Dean clipped it up on his fridge because Sam would  _ love _ this story.

 

It was less funny when the neighbor ran him down in the parking lot the next morning. Dean had almost made it to his car when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark mop of hair approaching from behind a row of parked cars.

“Oh, crap,” Dean said, and fumbled his keys. The man looked around furtively before running over to Dean.

“Hello,” the man said.

“Hi…” Dean replied.

“Are you sure you’re not missing your—” the man looked around again “—marbles?”

Dean stared at him, and at some point remembered to close his mouth. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm,” the man said. He walked away with a thoughtful look on his face.

Dean frowned after him and picked up his keys.

 

After work that day Dean parked on the street and entered his building through the side entrance. He’d gotten up to his apartment door when he realized that he forgot to check his mail, and he’d been expecting a package. He chewed his lip, key halfway to the lock. He could go back down and grab it real quick. There was probably only the slightest of slight chances that his weirdo neighbor’d be at the mailboxes, right?

On the other hand, why risk it? 

He  _ really _ needed that package, though.

Dean chewed his lip some more. He checked the time. It’s not like he’d memorized his neighbors schedule or anything, because that’d be creepy, but  _ sometimes _ the guy happened to be down there when he was just coming home, so he’d assumed the guy got off work a little earlier than he did, or had a shorter drive. (Alright, maybe he’d noticed his neighbor because he thought he was cute. He’d had no idea whatsoever that the guy was nuts, okay?)

Parking further away than he normally did had added a minute or two onto Dean’s commute; he’d probably be safe. Just to be extra certain, though, he paced the hallway by the stairwell for a minute, and took extremely slow steps down to the first floor.

He poked his head around the stairwell door into the building’s main lobby.

All clear. And there was his package, too. 

Dean slid the door stop into place and darted into the open. He’d only just turned away from his mailbox when the main door banged shut. 

With dread curdling through him, Dean looked up and right into the eyes of Mr. Marbles.

Who looked absolutely dismayed to be caught. He clutched a heavy-looking canvas bag in his arms and stared back at Dean with wide, shocked eyes. The look quickly morphed into a scowl.

“What’d I do?” Dean asked.

“This is all your fault, because you won’t admit to having  _ marbles _ in your apartment!”

“I— _ what _ ?” Dean realized his mouth was hanging open again. “Dude! Still don’t know what the hell you’re on about. I don’t have any marbles! I haven’t had marbles since I was a kid. Actually, you know what, I don’t think I’ve ever had marbles,  _ ever _ !”

The man’s scowl got deeper and he took several quick steps toward Dean. Oh, this was just great. He’d been  _ so _ close to making his escape, but now here he was, cornered by a total weirdo who was probably going to kidnap him, force feed him glass, and chop him up for dinner. They’d find his bones years later. Sammy would wonder what happened to him at first, but he’d move on eventually. It would be for the best.

The man suddenly squeaked and dropped his bag on the floor. Dean turned to follow his gaze.

The landlord stood to their side, his eyebrow raised dramatically as he took in the scene before him. 

Saved! Albeit saved by a short and draconian British landlord who loved to make surprise inspections and ruin everyone’s day, but Dean wasn’t picky. He’d take what he could get.

Mr. Marbles looked terrified, however. He swallowed thickly and pinned a weak smile to his handsome (and now also very pale) face.

It was a mistake; Crowley scented fear. Dean knew he’d move in for the kill any second now.

“Mr. Novak,” Crowley drawled. “What a pleasant surprise. But what have you got there?”

The neighbor shuffled his feet and tried to block the bag from Crowley’s view. 

Crowley, of course, tried to edge around him to look into the bag. 

It would be funny if it wasn't for the abject terror seeping from Mr. Mar— _ Novak’s  _ every pore.

“It's groceries,” Dean said, and cursed himself for speaking up at all. Then he remembered how the bag had sounded when dropped and amended his totally unnecessary statement. “Rice, actually. A giant bag of rice. And beans. He's, uh. He's making beans and rice. For me. Because… I love rice. Yup. Love me some beans and rice!”

Dean smacked his lips and grinned at Crowley, who responded with narrowed eyes.

“So you two are…?” Crowley swung his pointer finger between Dean and his neighbor. Dean felt his grin slip a little bit. “Right. Well, Mr. Novak, I suppose that explains why you didn't want me to know. Mr. Winchester is an... _ acquired _ taste, after all. Please, carry on.” 

Crowley waved them away magnanimously and left the building. The neighbor sagged and released a pent-up breath that suggested he'd been holding it for some time. Then he turned and glared at Dean again. 

“You're welcome,” Dean shot out at the man before he could speak. “But if you turn out to be a serial killer this is  _ definitely _ the last time I help you.”

Novak blinked owlishly, and Dean escaped back upstairs before the guy could reply. Or abduct him. 

 

The third day after their strange first encounter, Dean didn’t hear from Novak at all.

He was strangely disappointed.

 

The day after  _ that _ was Friday, and Dean had dinner with Sam and Jess straight after work on Fridays. It was late by the time he got home, so of course he wouldn’t run into Novak.

He was still a little disappointed, though.

 

Dean slept in on Saturday. When he woke, it was to sunlight streaming in through the gap in his bedroom curtains. Groaning at the unfairness of it, he crawled out of bed to twitch the curtains shut. As luck would have it, he twitched too hard and widened the gap. He blinked until his vision cleared, then hummed thoughtfully when he took in the scene below.

It was Novak, of course. The guy had bundled himself up in a long trenchcoat and pulled a ball cap low down over his face, but Dean saw right through the disguise. That wasn’t the only odd thing about his behavior however; the day was unseasonably warm for March, but not warm enough to account for the picnic basket the man carried tucked far under one arm. Even more strange was the way Novak kept looking around as he darted through the parking lot. He made his way quickly to his car (a crappy-looking Continental), carefully placed the picnic basket on the passenger seat, and then took off…  

…At an absolutely glacial pace. Dean watched, eyebrows raised, as the gold car crept through the parking lot and eased its way into the alley. It trundled out of view over the span of what seemed like forever.

Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t intensely curious about what Novak was up to.

There was nothing on the docket for the day (except laundry that he was ignoring), so Dean set up shop with a book in the living room. He angled his old easy chair by the window so he could see outside, propped his feet up on the coffee table (take that, Sam), and settled in. About an hour later the gold car appeared in the alley and slowly crept back into the parking lot. 

Novak pulled the car into his spot and went around the passenger side. He reappeared carrying the picnic basket cradled in his arms, and did the same furtive dart through the parking lot. Dean watched until Novak got too close to the building to keep an eye on. He debated running downstairs to catch him and find out what he was up to, but just then his phone rang (dammit, Sam) so it’d have to wait another day.

 

Later that evening, a note was shoved beneath Dean’s apartment door.

“‘Marble’ abandonment is cruel & you should be ashamed of yourself,” this one said. It was just as nonsensical as every other interaction he’d had with Novak, but Dean still felt the familiar pain of having disappointed someone ripple through him when he read it. 

He passed out halfway through a bottle of cheap whiskey and missed the follow-up note, which read: “I apologize, my previous missive was quite harsh. Your ‘marble’ is much happier with me, though, so there.” 

It was Sunday morning when Dean read the second note, and he was tired and hungover and generally all-around felt like crap, so he vowed that he’d ignore his crazy-pants neighbor from now on.

 

Given the way the past few days had gone for Dean, it should surprise no one that his vow was short-lived.

 

Sunday afternoon rolled around, and Dean was feeling much—well, a little—better. He crawled out of bed for the second time and glared at his laundry, but since it wasn’t going to wash itself, he pulled on some sweatpants and lugged it downstairs. He got two loads running, set the timer on his phone, then ran smack into the laundry room door, which was being opened from the other side.

“Oof,” said Dean.

“My apologies,” said the offender, and Dean groaned.  _ Novak _ . The bane of his existence. Once Novak saw who he’d apologized to, he sent Dean a grumpy death-glare and mulishly lugged his own laundry past the bottleneck, ruthlessly shoving Dean aside.

Dean caught a very unfortunate whiff of Novak’s laundry and sneezed violently.

For some reason this turned out to be a mistake, because Novak dropped his basket and whirled to face Dean. Rather than start yet  _ another _ argument with the guy, Dean raised his hands in a peace offering and backed out the door as quickly as he could.

Novak didn’t chase him down. Their interactions were getting stranger and stranger, so Dean considered this a blessing. 

 

On Monday Dean didn’t feel like going home straight after work, so he texted Sam non-stop until his brother relented and let him come over to his house for the evening. 

Sam didn’t find the Novak situation nearly as alarming as Dean did. In fact, Sam thought it was hilarious. But Sam didn’t have to live near a guy who had clearly lost his marbles about…  _ marbles… _ and had some sort of grudge against him, so Sam could suck it and provide sanctuary for his dearest brother.

But since Sam was an  _ actual _ grown-up with an actual wife and an actual job that he liked (who the hell  _ liked _ being a lawyer?) and had to get up early for, he kicked Dean out at 9PM and left him to fend for himself. 

Dean slunk home, or as much as one could slink with as loud and as energetic a car as Dean had. He pulled into his parking spot and spied a worrisomely familiar person struggling at the trunk of a car, and he cringed. He had hoped to escape home unscathed, but since Baby was not a  _ quiet _ car, Novak turned at the sound of her rumbling engine and saw Dean immediately. 

Dean turned the car off and thunked his head against the steering wheel, but only once or twice. Then, resolved to act like a motherfucking adult, he squared his shoulders, stepped out of the car, and walked over to Novak’s gold monstrosity.

“Need a hand with any of that?”

Novak looked a mixture of annoyed and grateful, which was almost worth the price of admission in and of itself; he sighed, and frowned, and twitched his nose, but in the end he handed several large and unwieldy bags to Dean.

“What is all this crap, anyway? Redecorating?” Dean asked. 

Novak glared.

Dean rolled his eyes.

 

Novak led the way to his apartment, still managing to look furtive despite being weighed down by the several bags he carried. Dean had swung along the spectrum from ‘concerned for his own safety’ and arrived back at ‘really fucking curious’. Maybe the guy was setting up a weed operation. It would explain the weirdness and the paranoia, but he really didn’t look the type. Besides, the guy’s laundry had been a completely different kind of skunky. Maybe he stole someone’s baby. Hah… and here Dean was, aiding and abetting. Bet Sam would  _ really _ find that hilarious. 

“You didn’t steal someone’s baby, did you?” Dean asked, just in case.

Novak gave him an incredulous look. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, nevermind. It’s nothing. Don’t mind me.”

“I really do not understand you at all,” Novak said.

Dean snorted. “That’s my line.”

Novak fumbled with his keys outside of his apartment, and dropped them in the hallway. Dean, ever chivalrous, retrieved them. 

“Let me,” he said, and shoved the door open.

“No, wait—” cried Novak.

But it was too late, of course.

Something small rushed out of the apartment and between Dean’s legs. He dropped his bags and stumbled backward, teetered on the precipice of falling flat on his ass, and finally recovered himself. He was feeling pretty proud of that and looked around, but Novak had run down the hall, apparently chasing whatever the hell it was that had nearly knocked Dean over. 

Novak tackled the thing right before it reached the outside door. When he turned around, he had a very noticeable bulge under his jacket, and Dean couldn’t help laughing. He was still chuckling by the time Novak made it back to him, and watching whatever-it-was squirm around under Novak’s clothes didn’t help. The guy ushered—pushed—Dean through the doorway, dragged the bags in behind him, and made sure the door was shut firmly before letting up on his death grip on the wriggling ball of whatever-it-was.

The thing tumbled down to the floor. 

It mewed.

Dean sneezed.

 

“You know they don’t allow pets here, right? Crowley will have your ass handed to you if he finds out.”

Novak sighed. “Why do you think I’ve gone through all this trouble to get your cat back to you?”

“Dude, I keep telling you, I don’t have a cat. I’ve never had a cat. I’m fucking allergic, you weirdo.”

“I noticed, back in the laundry room,” Novak said. “I had wondered if that was why you’d gotten rid of her. The idea that you would adopt a pet when you live in a building that doesn’t allow them while also allergic infuriated me.”  
  
Dean considered dragging Novak up to his place and showing him the lack of litter box, cat food, cat hair, and cat toys in the apartment, but noticed something about the scrappy little creature.

“Look,” he said. He wiggled his fingers at the cat and it came trotting over to him. Dean pointed to the animal’s left ear. “See that? Ear tipped. Guy’s also super skinny. He’s feral.”

“She,” said Novak.

“Fine.  _ She’s _ feral. Or at the very least hasn’t belonged to anyone in a long time. I swear to you, she’s not mine. Why would you even think that?”

Novak seemed puzzled. “I… don’t know, exactly. But I suppose that out of all the people I’ve met in this building, you seem the most likely to open your home to a wayward orphan.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m a real softie.” Dean scritched his fingers along the cat’s head, and she broke into a loud, rusty purr. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, you tried to get her back to me?”

“Well, since they don’t allow pets, I didn’t want to come right out and say, ‘Hey, you lost your cat!’ when I found her outside last week. My brother advised using a code word while communicating with you to avoid Crowley’s suspicions.”

_ Are you for real, _ Dean wanted to say. He took a deep breath, then another.

“Are you for fucking real,” is what Dean actually said. “And  _ marbles _ is what you came up with?”

“That was Gabe’s suggestion.”

Dean vowed that if he were ever to meet Novak’s brother, he’d plant him one right in the kisser. With his fist.

 

~A week later~  
  


Dean knocked on the door, a quick succession of raps that was their new code. One that they had both agreed upon in advance, for a change.

“Just a minute,” Cas called. There was some shuffling in the apartment beyond. Then, banging. Then, a yowl. A minute or two later the door creaked open.

“Come in, Dean,” Cas said. His face had split into a wide grin at the sight of Dean, and Dean smiled back. His smile dropped.

“Cas, you, uh… you got a little something…” Dean brushed his hand against the scratch on Cas’s cheek. 

“Oh,” Cas said. He looked sheepish. “Marbles still doesn’t like being put in the carrier, but the drill is going a little bit better.”

“Always best to be prepared. You know how much Crowley loves being a dick.” Dean dropped his jacket onto one of the kitchen chairs, then sneezed. “Dammit. Forgot to take my pill.”

“I bought some.” Cas flinched as rattling and a loud yowl shook the cat carrier in the living room. “Are you ready for me to let her out?”

“Ready or not, she might tear that carrier apart if we don’t.” 

Dean dropped onto the couch while Cas let the little devil out. 

And she was out like a shot; she made right for Dean, clambered up onto his lap, and made herself at home. Dean didn’t really mind. He scritched her head between her ears as Cas sat on the sofa next to him.

If he ever meets Cas’s brother, he’ll have to thank him for his stupid code word idea. But not right on the kisser. (That’s for Cas.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading /ᐠ｡ꞈ｡ᐟ\


End file.
